


Death of You

by hilaryfaye



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-26 09:36:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/649176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hilaryfaye/pseuds/hilaryfaye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has never actually met Anderson's wife, and for good reason.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Death of You

“Is your wife away for long?”

_Oh, if only you knew,_ Anderson thought. He pretended to rise to the bait, however, and accused someone of having told him. Sherlock, predictably enough, had some clever deduction at the ready.

Though Anderson had to admit he wasn’t expecting deodorant.

“He’s too clever for his own good,” Sally muttered, when they were shut out of their own crime scene.

“You’d think Lestrade would have realized he’s all going to get us in trouble,” Anderson replied, folding his arms over his chest. “I certainly won’t sink with this one.”

“Your wife—you said she knows.”

Anderson smirked a bit. “Oh, she knows. She’s smart enough to give the psychopath a run for his money, I’d say.”

“Then… she’s fine with it.”

Lord, people never would understand, would they? Anderson and his wife had chosen to get married for the simple matter of convenience. They were, more than anything, friends and business partners. Marriage gave a good story as to why they risked life and limb for each other. It would be hard for anyone else to understand the level of trust they had in each other, without that little paper and set of rings, which only Anderson ever wore.

“She has her own agenda,” Anderson replied, which he knew would be interpreted however Sally wanted to interpret it.

He liked Sally, but she would never really understand Anderson’s relationship with his wife. She was worlds away from that.

After he’d gotten his chance to examine the crime scene and take all the evidence back to the lab, and the “drugs bust” it was a relief to get home.

He expected the flat to be empty.

He was wrong.

“You’re home late,” his wife observed, not looking up from her phone.

“Crime scene. You’re home early.” Anderson opened a bottle of wine and poured a glass. “Didn’t care for the client?”

“It’s a wonderful thing to be in a position to pick and choose.” She stood, joining Anderson at the counter. “Pour me a glass, love; it’s been a long day.”

Anderson poured a second glass, and set the bottle on the counter, taking a long swallow. “You know it’s getting interesting, explaining why you’re always gone.”

“It’s a job, one I happen to enjoy.”

“Oh,  _I_ know that,” Anderson said. “They’re starting to wonder just what kind of ‘independent contractor’ you are.”

“You haven’t told them anything?”

“Of course not. What kind of man do you take me for?” Anderson smiled. “You know me better than that.”

“Of course I do. Otherwise I’d never have married you.” His wife sipped at her wine, tucking her phone into her pocket. She was beautiful in an aloof way, untouchable except for when she allowed herself to be touched. “Was it another of the ‘suicides’?” she asked.

Anderson nodded. “Serial killer, of course, though Lestrade decided we needed the psychopath to validate that.”

“Sociopath. Don’t play dumb, darling, it doesn’t suit you.” His wife smiled.

Anderson took another swallow of wine. “Well I’m sure you’d feel the same way if there was someone who decided you were incompetent at your job.”

“No one’s ever accused me of being incompetent at my job. You know the rules—we don’t discuss my work when I’m home.” She ran a fingertip over the rim of the wine glass. “There’s an opera tomorrow. Thought we could go.”

“I’ll do my best to schedule for it.” Anderson glanced at his wife. She seemed sad. “Irene?”

Irene Adler looked up, setting her wine aside. “Nothing. Just a bit worn out.” She smiled. “The next time that Sally’s over, at least give the poor woman the benefit of the sofa.”

They had separate bedrooms, which suited the both of them just fine. Anderson was just getting ready for bed when Sally phoned him. “Our serial killer’s gone and got himself shot. Lestrade wants you on forensics again.”

“I just  _got_ home.”

“I know, but Jameson’s out of town and you know how Lestrade feels about Perkins.”

Anderson sighed. “Fine then. I’ll be there in twenty.”

“I’ll tell Lestrade.”

“Another crime scene?” Irene was removing her earrings at her vanity, the door open.

“Yeah.” Anderson leaned in the door frame. “Don’t wait up for me.”

Irene forced something of a smile. “Keep out of trouble.”

Anderson laughed. “I’ll do my best.”

Irene moved quietly through their flat on bare feet. She was a different woman when she was at home, and Anderson knew it. Her hair hung over her shoulders, and she rarely wore shoes in their flat.

They’d known each other since they were both young and stupid enough to believe that this was all fun and games.

Things had changed, since then.

Her clients became more high profile, her work more dangerous.

And Anderson—he could have run and had a normal life, had a wife who slept in his bed and a kid of his own. He hadn’t. He’d stayed with her and kept her safe. “I made a promise and I intend to keep it,” he told her.

Irene was pretty sure that Anderson loved her. Not the way he loved Sally—it was more as though Irene were his best friend in the world. The way Anderson was hers.

Irene settled on the sofa in her robe, scrolling through channels. She really wasn’t so different from anyone else. She liked to watch the telly sometimes; she liked to sleep in on weekends. The only thing that made her different was that when she worked she was Irene Adler, and Irene Adler wasn’t allowed to be like everyone else.

She watched the last half of a terrible romance movie and went to the kitchen, pouring another glass of wine.

People underestimated her husband. Perhaps it was because they only knew him as a forensic scientist, but if Irene asked something of him—anything at all—he would deliver.

He’d saved her life more than once.

That wasn’t why she trusted him though. She trusted Anderson because he only asked that she stay his friend.

She must have fallen asleep on the sofa, because she woke up with Anderson tucking a blanket around her. “I’ll get up,” she yawned.

“It’s a quarter after three.”

“What was the scene?”

“Serial killer went and got himself shot,” Anderson said, “The sociopath had wandered off with him, and an ‘unknown shooter’ came to his rescue.”

“Who do you think it was?” Irene stood, pulling her robe a little tighter for warmth.

“Oh, the sociopath’s new buddy, of course, but we can’t prove anything.” Anderson squeezed her shoulder. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” Irene replied.

“You seemed a bit down, tonight.”

“It’s just something with work,” Irene said, managing a smile. “Everyone gets a little unhappy with their job sometimes.”

He studied her. “You’re sure it’s nothing to worry about?”

“I’m sure you’re a mother hen,” Irene replied, moving towards her bedroom. “You’d give me your right arm if you thought I needed it.”

“Do you?” he joked.

Irene smiled. “I might.”

Things were hardly perfect with their marriage, different though it was. One of them would be tired, and irritable, and would snap at the other—and being the type of people they were, they would bicker.

Anderson had only made the mistake of calling her a whore and a bitch once, early in their marriage.

Irene had slapped him so hard that she bruised his face, and she regretted not an ounce of it. “Never,” she’d hissed, “Call me that again.”

He hadn’t.

This argument was different, though. Something had been eating at her husband and he hadn’t yet given it a name.

“You’re always terrified someone’s going to get too close,” he shouted, “So you bloody well run away to me because God knows  _I’ll_ never be that to you, I’m your rock but not your home, no, God forbid I should be that!”

Irene went about pulling on her coat, trying to ignore him. She’d had enough of yelling in her time, she hated to hear the sound of it.

“And now you’re running again, because this isn’t what you wanted to hear.” He shook his head and slammed a cabinet door shut.

“What do you want from me, Thomas?” she asked, looking up. “You knew what this was when we got married; you knew what kind of person I am.” Sex was her job, not her interest. He’d known that for years. She kept the secrets she kept for a reason.

He knew he was fighting a futile battle. “For God’s sake Irene if you can’t trust me, who can you?”

“I do trust you. I trust you more than I’ve ever trusted anyone and I’d thank you to remember it.” Irene buttoned her coat, her hair in a braid over one shoulder. “You can’t protect me from everything and you can’t know everything about me.”

His jaw tightened and he stared out the window at the pouring rain. He was too sweet for her, and Irene knew it. Anderson deserved a woman like Sally Donovan, one who could love him the way he ought to be loved. And Irene—well, what she had was much better than what she deserved, for all the things she had done. She touched Anderson’s cheek. “I’m sorry,” she said, “But you knew what I was when you married me.”

He sighed and touched her hand. Anderson wouldn’t force a smile for her when he didn’t mean it. He was too honest for that.

She drew her hand back, retrieving her purse. “I’m going for a walk. You can come with me if you like, but I’d rather be alone.”

He looked up at the word alone, and she rolled her eyes. “Not completely alone,” she said, patting her bag. There was a small arsenal in there.

“I’ll stay here,” Anderson said. “How long will you be gone?”

“About an hour. I’ll call you if I’m delayed.”

He nodded, and walked to the piano up against the wall. He’d inherited it from his mother—if their flat were to burn down and he had a choice of saving her or the piano, Irene was relatively certain he’d throw her over the top of the piano, unable to lose either of them. He was already playing when Irene left.

It was better if Anderson was playing. He felt better after he did.

Much like Irene felt better after a walk on her own.

It was pouring down rain but that wasn’t going to stop her. Only the stupidest of her clients thought something like a little rain would bother Irene. It was like they didn’t believe she owned practical shoes or a raincoat.

Her umbrella also served the convenient double purpose of shielding her face from onlookers.

She could only be anonymous when she was Mrs. Anderson.

Funny, wasn’t it, that her anonymity needed a name?

Irene sat on a soaked park bench, watching the rain hit the pavement. It had probably been a mistake, to marry Anderson. You didn’t marry your friends. Not when that was all you felt for them, besides intense loyalty.

Irene supposed she did harbor some affection for Anderson, but not the kind he had for her.

He loved her. He loved her as much or more as he loved Sally Donovan and that was what was really tearing him apart. He couldn’t bear that he loved her. It had been easier for him when they were only friends.

She should divorce him, let him marry Sally, let him lead a normal life—but she needed Anderson, and he had already made it clear that he didn’t want a normal life. _Normal is boring,_  he told her.  _With you, I’m never bored._

It was the closest he’d ever gotten to admitting that he loved her.

_Well I like to think I’m not boring._ I love you too.

Irene sighed, tightening her scarf around her throat and climbing to her feet. Someday someone would get her, and there would be nothing Anderson could do to save her. It would break his heart.

The amount of guilt Irene felt at that thought was incredible.

He was still playing when she got back to the flat. Chopin. Irene hung up her coat and propped her umbrella in the stand. “I’ve always loved the way you play Chopin.”

Anderson smiled and kept playing. “It’s a pride of mine.”

“Do you love me?”

Anderson looked up, surprised. “Do I what?”

“You heard me.” Irene stood in the living room, her hand on the china case. “There’s not a wrong answer, you don’t need to be afraid to tell me.”

He was quiet, the Chopin trailing off into silence. “I suppose I do.”

Irene said nothing for a long moment. “You shouldn’t.”

“Since when have you and I ever done what we should?”

She smiled at that. “You give me too much for what I give you.”

“I know.” He closed the piano and stood, joining her at the window. It was still raining. “But if things get tough, you’re all I’ve got.”

“You have friends.”

“Do I?” he smiled a little grimly. “And don’t say Sally, she’s not a friend she’s—” he hesitated, looking for the right word.

“Your lover,” Irene supplied. “If it ends messily you lose her, I understand.” She paused. It wasn’t easy for the pair of them to make friends, was it? Friendship required trust. Irene only had Anderson, Anderson only had Irene—and the contents of her phone ensured that people would always be on their side exactly when they needed them to be. Maybe it wasn’t so strange, then, that he would rather suffer with her than live a normal life without her.

“Anderson,” she murmured—she never said his first name, except in the moments of closest confidence—“There will come a time when I can’t be protected anymore.”

“I know.”

“What will you do then?”

Anderson was slow to answer, collecting his words like necessary supplies. “Start over, I suppose. Live a supposed ‘normal’ life. Die of boredom at an old age.” He smiled, putting a hand on her shoulder.

Irene laughed softly. “Sometimes boredom is good for you, you know.”

Anderson shrugged. “So is giving up smoking but I’ve yet to do that, either.”

“You’re a junkie of your own kind, Anderson.”

“And that, Irene, would make you my drug.” He smiled again, and went back to the piano. He ran his hands gently over the keys.

“I’ll be the death of you.”

“There are worse ways to die.”


End file.
